


First 10 Tumblr Prompt Stories

by Jimlockian



Series: Prompts [2]
Category: Little Britain, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Crack Crossover, Fluff, Hazing, Kidnapped John, Kidnapping, Masturbation, Multi, NSFW, Pirate!lock, Pocket!lock, Rape/Non-con Elements, Violence, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:44:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jimlockian/pseuds/Jimlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each chapter is a different story, written for prompts made by others - you guys are FANTASTIC! Rating is Explicit to cover eventualities! CHAPTER WARNINGS VARY!</p><p>10. Taken}   Kidnapped Johniarty (10: Rated Mature, Kidnapping a minor, M/M implied, Post RBF AU)<br/>9. Smoke Billows & A Towel}   Teen!lock, Johnbastian (9: Rated mature: M/M briefly, drug use)<br/>7, 8. Pocket John}   Johniarty Pocket!Lock (7: Rated Teen, kidnapping, Pocket AU, Chapter 8 rated EXPLICIT for same plus NSFW sexual content, dubcon)<br/>6. Little London}   MorMor & Little Britain Crossover Fluff (6: Rated Mature, nudity, OOC-Sebastian)<br/>5. To Deduce A Compliment}   Johnlock post coital fluff (5: Rated Mature, probably NSFW)<br/>4. In Which Sherlock Is Kidnapped}   Dark!rape Threesome (4: Rated EXPLICIT, NSFW, masturbation, rape!fic, implied non con, kidnap)<br/>3. Adventure On The Low Seas}   Pirate!Lock Johniarty (3: Rated Teen for violence)<br/>1,2. Detention Deviants}   Teen!Lock (Rated Teen chapter 1; underaged smoking/drinking, Chapter 2:  Rated EXPLICIT; same plus NSFW, non-con hazing, dark!rapefic, BEWARE!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Detention Deviants

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings change depending on the chapter as each chapter is a new story. So do ratings .. 
> 
> This is for my usual length prompt stories (1-2K words). I accept prompts via tumblr, my profile has more information if you're interested please check it out!
> 
> Credit to Doyle, Moffat, & Gatiss, no copyright infringement intended. Just having fun!
> 
> Teen!lock prompt: ishipsohardidontevenknow  
> (Rating: Teen  
> Warnings: Underage drinking/smoking)

Years before Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes knew John Watson, as the seasoned war veteran with healing abilities, they both knew a rather bookish lad. Only for one day, but that was all they needed.

John Watson was normally a well mannered student – was, because there is one incidence where John found himself in detention. It was innocent enough to start with, some boys had asked him for what he thought was help but instead turned out to be a nefarious prank against the principle. Caught with the rest of the hoodlums, but without their scathing past indiscretions, John walked away with only one day's worth of detention. One day did not seem a hard price to pay.

In fact it seemed to settle his nerves when he only saw two other occupants of the classroom turned detention cell - a short, agile looking boy with greased hair, and a tall pale dark haired boy. John did not have a name to put to either face, but he did recognize the short boy as the school track star. He gave both a congenial smile, to which they scrunched up their expressions and John quickly dropped his kind look.  
  
The teacher was one Mr. Baxter. An elderly gentleman whose tenure was the only thing keeping him in the school, even if only hanging on by a thread. At present he nodded to John and marked his attendance, looking to the group. “Complete silence.” He commanded sternly, tapping his finger against the side of his nose. This was his signal that they could do homework, listen to music, or anything else that did not bother his time.

John busied himself with that evening's homework, taking note of the other two boys. Neither removed a binder, a notebook, anything at all. They just sat coolly. John quickly realized why; The book Mr. Baxter held only lasted about five minutes before he had nodded off and it slipped from his hand.

The jock and the rebel rose to their feet as soon as their caretaker had fallen asleep. John looked from side to side, realizing they were leaving, “Shouldn't..” He gestured to the near-empty room, “We wait the hour?”

The shorter boy chuckled under his breath. John tightened his lips.

“You've never done anything wrong.” Remarks the sleek bodied athlete. “How boring!”  
  
“Mundane.” Corrects the boy with dark curls after only the slightest glance at them. His leather jacket is significantly longer than the usual, nearly to coat standards. It drapes over his fit frame, giving him a dark aura that his lacking expression does nothing to correct.  
  
John looks between the two as his cheeks turns a coral color from the way they look down at him. The two glance at the now drooling teacher before the track star winks cynically at John, “Have fun.”  
  
“Where are you guys going?” John still cannot believe they are leaving mid-detention.

“To have real fun.” Replies the athlete, seeming to have more of a mouth than the quiet bad boy that seems to choose each word with care.  
  
“What about..?” With a helpless gesture he looks at Mr. Baxter.

Up until this point, the curly haired boy looming over them in height had said little, but suddenly his low voice made its presence known. “Last night he was up quite late, you can tell by the dark circles. He's been in pain or he would not be sitting in the chair at that angle. Add to that the clear face he's only had one cup of coffee, his bladder won't be getting him up anytime soon. We have long enough.”  
  
“Speak for yourself, I won't be coming back.” Replies the athlete thickly, he sneers at John, “Do what you like.”  
  
As they walk out of the room John looks at the drooling man, then at their retreating backs. He frowns – it was an injustice enough being caught in trouble that was not his, but would he really risk more trouble? It was only an hour, after all... Yet, John likes danger. It's not something he has felt comfortable with, hence his always following the beaten path behavior, but the allure is there. Deep down John tells himself that everyone rebels once... why not?

 

He swiftly packs up his books and papers, slinging his backpack over his shoulder before taking off after the others.  
  
“Three... two...” Murmurs the bad boy, counting down to one just as John calls after them, “Wait!”

* * *

  
  
Though curious of the strange little duo he has decided to tag after John gets no answers as they walk out of the school. Having never done anything so revolutionary it makes John's cheeks burn brighter with his shame. Still, the other two walk with purpose and he never leaves them.  
  
“So what's your names?” Asks John before introducing himself.

The two exchange looks, as if amused by John like an older brother would look when amused by his younger sibling. The quick-lipped jock replies first, “Jasper.” He smirks, and John suddenly thinks he has been given an alias.  
  
“Caesar.” Comments the black curled boy. It is such a ridiculous suggestion that John knows they are having fun with him, but he does not much care. His nerves burn with his defiance.

They stop in front of the bleachers beside the football field. No practice today, so it lies as an empty outstretch of green. The boy supposedly titling himself Jasper slides deftly between the complex scaffolding holding up the fans' seats. He looks back and gestures to John, who follows into this den of ruffians.

Either these boys had detention often, or they had set this up beforehand, as there is a cooler and boom box already waiting. Jasper moves to it, putting on a Beastie Boys CD. “I lifted this off my older brother..” He comments, smirking. As soon as the heavy beats start up his head begins to bop in time.

Caesar pulls out a box of cigarettes from his back pocket, quickly sticking three in his mouth and igniting their tips with one sweep of his lighter. One is handed to Jasper, the other to John. At first he puts up a hand to refuse, but those imposing eyes stare and John slowly takes it. He regards it carefully, then the other two.  
  
Jasper is already bent over the cooler, seeking out a can that does not surprise John to turn out to be beer. He paces restlessly with the music, taking particular delight in letting each beat pump through him like some living stereo system. Sometimes he grabs the metal posts around them and swings around them.

Quite his opposite, Caesar settles on a horizontal connection of the metal frame that John would have found uncomfortable after two minutes. Once there he smokes and drinks in peace, his beer sitting precariously on his knee though it never falls.  
  
“Aren't you on track?”  
  
“Yeah.. Beat the school record.” Remarks Jasper with a sneer.

John cannot fathom how a runner could also be a smoker, but decides it might make the two turn on him to say such. The atmosphere is laid back, aside from his own internal reservations. He toys with the cigarette, leaning against a pole. After regarding the burning stick for a moment he decides, what the hell, and places his lips to the end. He inhales deeply and ends up hunched over and coughing a moment later. When handed a can all he wants is something to erase the burning in his throat and he swigs it quickly.  
  
“Well done.” Jasper praises, slapping John on the shoulder. He feels a strange inclusion from this peculiar little group of misfits, something deeper than that of his own friends.  
  
After a little while of hanging out with the music going, the alcohol flowing, John warms up enough to dance some crude punkish swing with Jasper while their ill-lipped deviant looks on. His bright blue eyes suddenly leave the pair and he rises to his feet. “Principal's coming.” Voice crisp and sharp. He grabs the boom box with one hand and turns to make his way through the maze of scaffolding.  
  
“Shite.” Jasper growls angrily, giving the cooler up for dead and leaping over a beam. When he makes it out John can see how aerodynamic his small, nimble figure is. Before John is all the way free from the maze of steel around him Jasper has sprinted three-quarters of the way across the field.

Given the size of their school, and John's amicable ways, it is unsurprising that the three never see each other again after splitting apart and running for cover. Still, getting detention purposefully did cross John's youthful mind once or twice before the incident slipped from memory.


	2. Detention Deviants Revisited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could not fully complete the prompt in one go, so this happened. I felt awful for John.
> 
> Warning: Non consentual underaged graphic sexual acts taking place for hazing purposes. NSFW!  
> Much darker than chapter one, this sequel's prompt was hazing so this got quite ugly. EXPLICIT CONTENT

Back in those primrose days of youth Jim Moriarty had been as much of a two faced little sneak as he is as an adult. He was the track star with fine grades, making him untouchable, and he was also aloof, disinterested in his peers, and obnoxiously aggrandizing with his self image.

That sleek figure liked running. He liked the wind ripping off his body. It felt like an escape. Jim knew he could run anywhere if he wanted it badly enough. He was never wrong.

A year after his encounter with John he had nearly forgotten the boy. Though, not Sherlock, whom he had meet with often and always with both assuming new names.

Jim was in detention once again. Today he elected to try the name DeVere. This time the teacher in charge was a wrinkle eyed young woman bearing down on them over her hawk like nose. Though he caused trouble, he did not manage an escape until the villainous hour was complete.

As Jim walked out of the hall, hands shoved into his pocket with a scowl, he saw a familiar figure across the bustling walkway. Oddly enough, the other boy was already looking at him and once their eyes locked John made an effort to walk over. "Hullo - do you, remember me?"

"I don't parlay with the rugby jocks," Jim gestured to the letterman jacket now adorning John's shoulders. With maturity and training his body had become a bit buffer then their original encounter. Even still he recognizes John on sight, but he would never tell the other boy to his face. 

Which is a better move than usual, for it makes John fluster and rapidly begin to explain their small adventure. For Jim and Sherlock it happened often, but not with such excellent additional company. He was downright jaunty to Jim, inviting him to a party at one of his football buddies' places.

 

This is not Jim's sort of party to relax in. He likes small intimate little gatherings and continues that trend into adulthood. However, there is a menacing glimmer in his eyes as he, and a looming figure with three inches more height since John has last seen him, arrives at the party. Jim has brought Sherlock, aka Caesar, presently under the identity Voltaire.

They arrived a stylish two hours late. By then John had assumed 'Jasper' was not coming. He fell in with his brotherhood, united under wins and losses alike. On the team hierarchy John was comfortably in the middle, not much of a boat rocker or star, but a reliable cog in the system. So when he moved away from the other letterman wearing teens, nobody paid too much attention.

"You're here." Remarks John with surprise, looking from Jim to Sherlock, "Both of you, hey!" He lightly slaps Sherlock's arm with a wide grin. The other two can smell the effects of two hours' worth of binge drinking from a two feet away. The stretching toothy smile and fixed grin make it obvious. 

"We're just going to grab some beer and head to the woods." Jim gives him a look that makes it clear John's presence is more than requested. He breezes by the lad in his newfound jockdom, going for a few cans while John turns to Sherlock. Arguing with him is like talking to a brick wall, if a wall could be judgmental. 

Once again the two are taking off and all John can see is the back of them, and, once again, John Watson follows with due haste.

 

The duo is snickering, though Sherlock is exponentially more subdued than Jim. John continues to beam like he has found long lost cousins instead of one-day acquaintances. They traipse down a side road, taking a short cut through someone's backyard against John's wishes. After a feeble attempt at arguing he simply jogs in.

Jim is as self possessed as he was the year before, and as much their leader as any of the trio could be.  This time he does not intend to let John get away so easily. To wit, he makes sure they are deep among the trees and out of the way of anyone else's path.

The armful of booze is put down on a fallen tree and three cans taken up. Jim lights a cigarette while smoking and John calls him by the wrong name. "No DeVere." Jim corrects before slinging back another harsh mouthful.

John gives Sherlock a quizzical look and he replies, "Voltaire."

Shaking his head, Jim approaches John and curtly commands, "Take that thing off."

"What?"

"Your jock mark." Jim succeeds in making himself amused, and only earns a confused stare from John. "It's not our thing, you see? If you want to be in our merry band you better."

Eager to renew the brotherly feeling John found in the group before he pulls the letterman off and tosses it over a tree limb. The lad turns his body, which has gone from baby fat to sinew, toward Jim and gives him an inquiring look. Jim merely shakes his head as that is not enough and delights in the pout John gives him.

"I told you that was why you brought him." Remarks Sherlock, who has been watching from a perch on a tree limb.

Jim shushes him while going off to get some music going. He grabs another can along the way.

"Why do you two do this?" John asks once Jim is far enough away.

"More interesting." Remarks Sherlock dryly, "Only just."

Jim returns with a swivel of his hips in time with the radio's blare. He turns on John like some jackal once he has returned. "Now. If you want to be in our brotherhood, come dance with me!" He begins sinister and turns playful. With the past memory of their fun combined with an already high blood alcohol content, John quickly joins him.

 

As Sherlock looks on with patient yet uninterested glances, he continues to swing back several cans to try and achieve that thought numbing buzz. He pays little attention to Jim, dancing close to John, nor the way they spin faster.

The playful Jim, known in that moment to John as DeVere, suddenly throws both arms around John's waist and plants a kiss on his chaste lips. When John steps back Jim's hands tighten painfully. "Do you want to be one of us or not?"

"But.." John starts in, only to have Jim scowl and for some reason such a sharp sound does silence him. The dark haired track star returns to their slow infantile kiss, feeling his way over John's lips, which are motionless to let Jim do as he liked.

When Jim breaks away he goes to the fallen log for another beer. He also passes one to John who downs it quickly to deal with the peculiar feeling of kissing another boy, even if he had not participate much in said kiss.

Before an hour has past Jim has laid six more liplocks on John with increasing levels of reciprocation, though they are still slight at best. Sherlock weirds John out with details about his life, but other than that John feels quite at home with the two.

At least until Jim gropes harshly on his rear. There is a frenzy of squeezes from the boy barely taller than he, and it sends John into a flustered state. Jim backs him up against a tree, feeling like some dominant predator as he starts kissing John, who squirms. He can feel a bulge against his thigh and is not so innocent as to be ignorant to Jim's arousal.

"Suck my dick." Jim commands suddenly, squeezing at John's hips, his breath is hot and full of crisp tobacco and liquor's tang. "Or I'll fuck you here and now." He is no long playing sensually but demanding with a harshness that makes John second guess following him for the first time. The threat in his eyes makes him look like a whole new person to John.

John shakes his head in silent refusal, even if it makes him cringe to see Jim's glare. Sherlock looks on with abrupt keen interest, his bright blues slightly dulled from intoxication but still more than sharp enough.

"DeVere, Jasper, whatever your real name is, I don't-" John refuses as well as he can. When Jim slaps him across the face with an open hand he can barely believe it, and he jumps the boy in a rage of hurt pride and drunk testosterone. Jim gets a punch across the face, nailing his cheek and knocking the sinister athlete off him. 

"Not bad." Jim remarks with a brush to his jaw. He tackles John, who has not yet had military experience and cannot get free of the wicked lad's skilled headlock. He starts to tighten his arm, cutting off John's breath until he begins to blue. Jim releases John's neck only to fist s handful of the brunette's locks painfully. John would have cried out if he was not already so busy catching his choked breath.

Once the panting has slowed the track star swept his limber leg and knocked the already doubled over jock onto his knees. John cries out at the pain shooting up his legs and through his skulls as Jim is still tugging fiercely. He tries to pull free, but a harsh yank from Jim stops that effort.

"At least your hand, John." Growls his one time friend turned assailant. That Irish trill a touch noticeable now. There is no room for argument, and while every hair threatening to be ripped free he arches his back and moans feebly in protest. 

That only makes Jim snicker audibly and yank John's head close enough to his tight jeans. The bulge self evident to John's dazed stare, a heat that feels like it is seeping from Jim. He hisses when John tentatively touches the harsh denim, quickly giving orders for his zipper to be pulled down. 

John tries to turn away but Jim pulls it down for him. It is not until Jim forces John's face to rub against his boxers that John cries out with a real sense of fear. Jim just grinds against his cheek, sneering. "Look at how ridiculous you are."

John can feel Voltaire's eyes on him, but there is no help coming there and he knows it. Suddenly this misfit society has become a gang of thieves, and he does not think he can pay its membership fee. He bites his lower lip and forces his eyes closed, only to have Jim yank him up by his hair. Without care the mad nimble-foot lad yanks John's pants down and pushes him over a tree stump. One hand still holds John's soft brown locks, holding so hard that even with his neck craning backward John is still in pain.

After taking something from his pocket Jim shifts John's trousers down and slaps his round rear end harshly, watching the slightly younger boy writhe. John keeps asking him why and Jim pauses to run the edge of the cold, hard metal-feeling object along his spine. John shivers for the touch and his mounting terror.

John whimpers when the blade flicking free from the side of the switchblade makes it clearer what had just been running along his back. He ceases all movement, afraid of what might happen, and that fear manifests with Jim running the flat blade against John's spine from the nape to his rear. Some peculiar test to see if John would be still, and after he does the blade slides away. John lets out a whimper and sniffle. 

Suddenly John falls silent as his pale arse check becomes the site of the object's path. When it starts to slide between his cheeks he squirms until the pain in his hair wets his eyes with tears. The harshness of his position and the rough hewn rings of the stump beneath him pale in comparison to Jim's deathgrip to his hair. 

"Oh shut up," Jim mutters insensitively, all past pretense of friendliness - of the jovial boy John danced with - gone like wood turned to ash. To remind John of the consequences he leans forward until his pelvis brushes the other boy's bare bottom and John whimpers, fighting a touch less. Jim starts to finger John's dry virgin entrance, enjoying every twitch underneath him. He presses the handle end of the Jim's switchblade in his hand to the pink hole and smiles dangerously at John's sudden bucking hips.

Sherlock is watching them, still aside from the occasional sip of beer and at one point he starts smoking. Jim may do what he wants, it is amusing to Sherlock, but Jim's business. He feels a bit poorly for John, but not enough to help.

Jim presses the closed switchblade inside his unstretched body, listening to John's scream and relishing to horrified sound. He has only put it in an inch and John screams bloody murder. The thought sends John to ease his own boxers down and begin stroking himself, fingers wrapped tightly. The head of his shaft just brushes John's buttocks, so pale that Jim's smears would blend in if not for their liquidus sheen. John's begun to cry without realizing, tear tracks staining his face and running from his cheeks down his throat and chest. His shirt grows wet from tears and sweat.

"Enough!" Calls Sherlock from his hard observation point. That attractive low voice is askew with a mix of anger and disgust.

"Feck off!" Shouts Jim so brazenly that it nearly rivals John's earlier scream, except this sound is full of livid rage.

Sherlock grumbles, turning his head away and lighting another cigarette. "You're sick." He comments to the wind, knowing Jim will hear him.

With the slightest movement of his wrists he flicks John's head back further and twists the flashlight a fraction of an inch to hear John choke on a scream, his body heaving from the overwhelming pain. Jim is pumping himself quickly, watching the pale fit form start to bleed from the rough bark against his underbelly. Without warning Jim climaxes with a spray of white on the grass at the stumps base. He leans back and relaxes his grip on John's hair. 

After a moment of satisfaction Jim tugs the end of the switchblade free, noting only a small touch of blood with disappointment. He walks over and gets two, now warm, beers. He moves around to John and shoves one into his hand. After a few minutes of silent crying the football jock pulls up his pants and brushes away the tears. He does not know why he stays, even when he cries twice more, but he starts drinking again to numb the pain. It does not work. Even Sherlock has to look away at him. Jim, however, spends the night as near to John as he can.

Not surprisingly, John forgets the entire encounter, thinking their original was all there ever was. Sherlock lets it fade away in time, but Jim? Jim places it in a row of accomplishments and polishes it for years to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a lesson in why you should not binge drink. Never in the woods. Especislly not with Jim Moriarty.  
> Sherlock has picked leader figures he admires. Jim elects to use nefarious sounding names.
> 
> More AU universe than I am used to, but I can fathom a touch of cursing if they were teens. Sherlock is excellent broody, and Jim is... Jim. Dear me, Mr. Moriarty, dear me. 
> 
> Next prompt is pirates, and consentual, yo ho!


	3. Adventure On The Low Seas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pirate!lock prompt from R! Combined some elements from two, but mostly the first prompt!
> 
> (Rated Teen - for pirate violence!)

Although he appears a touch out of place with his lack of menace, John Watson is at home on the Cogitaciun, a dark hulled pirate ship. John is an ex-navy officer, with little training in anything else it is not surprising he turns to piracy. Luckily for him, his Captain, Sherlock Holmes, is a man of unsurpassed intellect. Captain Holmes keeps their days full of intrigue, and purses stuffed with gold. It is little wonder that John stays in his service for three years, quite quickly displaying his loyalty and rather out-of-place personableness; John rises to the rank of first mate.

His skin grown darker than in his navy days of years gone past. First mate John never thought anyone could catch his idealized Captain Holmes but one stormy night, someone does. The battle falls upon them swiftly from another boat appearing from out of the mist. They all know a naval ship by its build, but this one is the first that has ever surprised their Captain.

The ill-clad men fall upon the uniformed naval officers that quickly storm the deck. It is a fierce clash of musket barrels and swords through flesh. Many a man fall, though the pirates' side has dearer casualties. Within minutes the fight is done, and the survivors have no choice but to lay down their weapons and submit themselves to the law.

Then John sees his Captain, bleeding from his arm and trying to ignore the clearly painful injury. John is not a doctor, but he has picked up a few things treating the wounded. Someone has to clean up after the sword fights, and he is usually in one piece afterwards. As he is applying a strap of his shirt to his Captain's arm a sword tip rests between his shoulder blades.  
  
“What do we have here?” An amused higher tone of voice than John is used to speaks from behind him, and John knows it is whomever is at the other end of the sword. He turns over his shoulder and spies an officer in a better attired suit. Stiff gray breeches, finely pressed, a black jacket that started at the short man's waist and was covered in gold embroidery. The epaulettes upon his shoulders were also in gold thread, given his height and the air of grandeur about him there is a Napoleonic feeling to tis man. “Captain Moriarty... Hi.” Jim waves with an unmanly wriggling of his fingers. The sinister gleam in his deranged gaze stops it from looking anything but malevolent. Not smug or prideful as most naval men get upon catching their pray. He seems quite interested in John – in fact, Jim was wondering why John would turn his back to expose himself just to wrap up a non-fatal wound.  
  
“Lieutenant Moran, secure Captain Holmes here.” Ordered the finely attired naval Captain Moriarty, sending a dark haired, equally malevolent looking man to yank Sherlock up roughly and drag him toward the banister. They would take the Captain in for a trial. For the lesser men a trial by sea is adequate. Too quickly, the pirates are being forced off their own plank.

John Watson had swallowed back a lump in his throat when they removed Captain Holmes from his sight. It only came back with renewed vigor when he watched the first of his crew-mates fall into the ocean. They had rarely used this painful method, and it makes John look away in disgust. He does not see Captain Moriarty's sadistic grin when he turns away.

“Sebastian, bring me that one.” Jim points John out and is bemused when the man looks relieved, then afraid of what is to come. He enjoys sitting back and watching the man's emotions play out as his Lieutenant brings John to him. Moran nearly throws John down at Jim's feet, making the man stumble before him.

John lifts his chin high though, not letting them get satisfaction from rough handling him. “First mate John.” He announces curtly.

John's intention backfires beautifully – Jim likes the fight in him. He is more intrigued than ever by this strangely loyal sea creature. Jim hums for a moment in thought, “Mhm, no.. You have a military man's bearing.”  
  
“I had a place in Her Majesty's Royal Navy, but that was lost some years ago.” John mutters, deciding not to fight on that question. Perhaps such will spare his life, he hopes, after all the militant bonds of brotherhood run deep.

John fails to realize that for Captain Moriarty, such bonds are inconsequential, and instead feels justified in his thoughts when Jim nods and proclaims, “You will come aboard our ship.” Jim does not care about his record, he just finds John intriguing, so he lets him aboard.

* * *

  
After adjusting to a pirate crew it is a queer thing returning to a governmental ship, but John much prefers it to walking the plank. He tries to push the thought of the men they lost – friends of a couple years – out of his mind but they haunted his evenings' rest. Something that brings him solace is moving down to the bridge and caring for his Captain. The only reason Holmes' arm does not become infected, or the man starved to death, is John's continuous attention.

Of course, as Captain, Jim knows everything that occurs on his ship, his soldiers ask whether or not they should stop John from his 'secret' visits to the brig. In a move that perplexes them, Jim allows it. In fact he watches from the shadows once or twice, growing more found of the loyal little pirate.

Unable to stay away, Jim sends for John and has the man brought into his Captain's quarters. The ship's cook had been ordered to make a fine repast, and it is more mouthwatering than months of whatever the pirate cook had been able to fashion together. John cannot remember the last time he smelled roast chicken. Even with his mouth watering he sits down stiffly and touches nothing in front of his enemy.

“Won't you dig in? I'm sure you're hungry.” Jim comments, playing with his fork instead of actually eating anything. He lives well normally, and it is in his nature to eat rather sporadically.

“Fine. Thanks.” John begins with his show of bravery.

Captain Moriarty tuts him, “Pride is fine, but it leaves one malnourished.” There is a pause, but John will not retort so Jim continues. “So, why are you keeping up with your Captain? You must know he cannot help you now, lad.”

“I can still help him.” Jim is touched by such loyalty as that and nods for John to continue. The brown haired man only scowls, “I don't have to explain myself to you.”

“I am the Captain, dear, so you do.” A slight bit more tension in his voice though Jim is still being playful with him.

John levels him with a stare that discards the fact that the man before him has him in the palm of his hand. Instead, John only acknowledges hierarchy, “Then you should realize he is my Captain, so I just do.” A sense of finality in John's voice that drags the atmosphere of the room down in a way Jim finds heady.  
  
Jim smirks and shakes his head, enchanted, “You are a sweet naive thing.” Given all the rough weather John has taken it does impress Jim that he has not developed a hard shell, just some firm patches and coarse scars. “You ought let me take care of you.”

John gives him a bewildered look as he cannot imagine what the man means by this. Then Jim makes it clear, “If you are on my side you will be well looked after.” Apparently dinner is only the start.

* * *

 

Two weeks go by as they sail back to their home port in England. Two weeks that John obeys all of Moriarty's orders. Two weeks he works as one of the soldiers, not a captured pirate. Two long weeks... But, instead of a cell, John stays in normal quarters among the rest of the blokes. John wears a grunt naval officer's suit, and is somewhat tolerated by the others. He eats well but sleeps no more easily, though it soothes him to continue his care of his Captain Sherlock Holmes.

Every day Captain Moriarty will call John around, sending the order without any reason and giving even less information on his motivation when John appears. Captain Moriarty makes a present or two of some finer bedding, and he often tries to feed John the high quality food off his plate despite John's utter disinterest in such. Instead of orders, the Captain is doting on him, but John does not realize until he finally relents to eating something from Captain Moriarty..

The culprit was a vanilla cake with almond topping. It is the last of the desserts, Jim is proud to inform John, and the sight of spongy texture greets them when Jim slices it. Nothing ought look so divine unless it falls from Heaven itself. Captain Moriarty walks to his prisoner, sitting relaxedly in one of his chairs holding a piece of cake between his fingers.

The sugary scent wafts too temptingly. His last dessert was a year ago minimum, and John has always loved vanilla. Unconsciously he leans forward and gets a richer smell. The man looks at it with longing for a time, before plucking it from Jim's fingers and eating it.

The soft moan John makes is worth two weeks' waiting by Jim's judgment. He quickly finds another mouthful sized piece and lets John take it from his hand. The third time, with John eager now, Jim pulls his hand back. At John's crestfallen look mingling with anger at being tricked, Jim merely shakes his head and purrs, “From my fingers.”

That was when John finally realized the doting Captain Moriarty had been showing him was not a way to lead him back to the navy, nor even was it his long-shot thought which was that John was being groomed for the Lieutenant's position due to his loyal qualities that Captain Moriarty seemed to like.. No, Captain Moriarty is attracted to him.

Suddenly the kind of care Jim wants to give him is clear, and John fights to keep the pink coloring from his face. “Sir,” It is the first time he has called Jim such, “I should get back to my duties. I appreciate your place among the crew but, I'm not going to do that. If you want to toss me overboard,” John gives a hopeless shrug, “So be it.” He stands up with an awkward expression, having the urge to leave.

Jim lets John go without attempting to stop him. He smirks and slides the cake between his lips, chewing thoughtfully as he stares at the door that had closed behind John as if it were the man himself. “I like a man with spirit.” He mutters, licking his index finger. Captain Moriarty will keep chasing down John until he can show the man reason.

In spite of fine weather their navigation officer will make many mistakes that keep them from land – Jim makes sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta-bff got a great idea for taking Johniarty Pirate!Lock in another direction so this AU will be continued shortly.
> 
> Hope you like it R! ARGHH! Your comments always raise my spirits, matey!


	4. In Which Sherlock Is Kidnapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from 796116311389 - Selfcest, Jim kidnaps Sherlock, Jim forces them to have sex (threesome - of course Jim joins).
> 
> Rating: EXPLICIT  
> Warning: NSFW!! Non-con RAPE!fic. DARK! Graphic M/M/M implied. Kidnap.

John had left the flat an hour earlier. Sherlock appreciates the alone time and takes note of it instead of his usual ignorance to John's whereabouts. They have finished a particularly trying case, one that took weeks of time and many sleepless nights for Sherlock.

Physically, the detective is long overdue for some basic creature comforts. During a case he denies himself everything. Now, with John out, he quickly heads for his bedroom. Sherlock Holmes might dislike sexual intercourse but he is still a warm blooded man. Thus, he strips down, takes out lubricant and slicks his hand, beginning to touch his lengthy shaft.

No one can compare to the allure of his own self. No one at all. There is no specimen as beautiful as Sherlock – he does not think physically, but mentally. The imagery his mind comes up with trumps anything reality can provide, and there is none of the aggravation of emotional attachment that comes from being reliant on others as is required in any sort of relationship. Sherlock needs and loves the distance he makes between himself and others. Moriarty might have come close but Sherlock knows he is superior. Sherlock is like a finely tuned machine, or as close as a human being could ever get.

His hand pumps slowly at first, running down to his balls and teasing them before sliding up and clasping. Sherlock increases speed rather quickly, closing his eyes and leaning back, completely pliable against his mattress. All that matters is how brilliant he is and how good he can make himself feel. The detective bucks his hips and hastily thrusts down a tissue to catch his ejaculate. The muscles in his back tighten as the invigorating feeling hits. After a couple minutes luxuriating the detective rises and heads to shower.

Once cleaned up and changed he troops down to collect the mail. One envelope is peculiarly large, meant to be noticed. There is no return address, making it even more dubious in Sherlock's eyes. He opens it at the foot of the stairs and reads:

_Sherlock Holmes,_

_Your silken articulation,_  
 _By swapping information,_  
 _Is dropping flirtation._  
  
 _~ Invitation to play with J.M ~_  
  
 _Where: The windowless hotel room._  
 _When: Now._  
  
 _PS: I know you may be unwilling to come on your own, so as an added incentive this card is laced with a sedative. Enjoy Mr. Holmes.._

* * *

The note was lengthy for a reason not outlined until the end. By the time Sherlock's eyes hit the last line they droop slightly. Without warning he falls over in an undignified sprawl, out like a light...

When John comes home Sherlock is gone, but the note is lying on the floor with a pile of the rest of their mail. He picks it up too, but of course, like a scratch-and-sniff card that has been over scratched the note has lost its potency. It was only good once it made contact with the air. Still, once John reads the end of it he tosses it as far away from him as one can manage with a stiff piece of cardboard (which is depressingly not far).

John begins to hunt for Sherlock – he is quite proud that he thinks of the man's cell phone and tracks Sherlock with its GPS. The hotel is found quickly and he breaks in gun-first, safety off.

The sight that greets John when the door is flung open disgusts him to the core. Sherlock's down to boxers, and Moriarty's are already at his knees. The detective has been tied up and gagged. Each of his limbs is tethered to a bed post, the arms via handcuffs and the legs with rope. The rough red circular welts on his wrists and ankles makes it clear that Sherlock has been writhing, fighting. His eyes are wild when they fall on John. An unmistakable white splatter shines on the detective's cheek like fresh paint.

This time Moriarty has gone too far.  
  
“On your knees!” John screams, having immediately pointed the gun at Jim's head. He takes the center of the man's wide forehead and pictures an invisible bullseye, keeping his weapon pointed there. Surging with anger and terror for Sherlock, John is ready to fire. In fact, John might have fired right then and there. He could have murdered James Moriarty, if not for the clicking sound of a gun cocking against his right ear.  
  
“Lower your weapon.” Mutters a cruel gravelly voice. Standing behind John is Moriarty's right hand man Sebastian Moran. He has John covered, and did from the moment the doctor walked into the building.

Moriarty inhales sharply, having won, “I don't suppose you'd like to get on _your_ knees, John?”

John looks afraid and appalled at once. Sherlock knows he is shocked, as his own shock has already passed. Suddenly the fact that John is there only means more trouble, for both of them, and he knows it because Moriarty is excited.

“You can have a go at Sherlock, or I will.” Jim threatens, and with that growl the open end of the gun is suddenly pressing more harshly against his head. With greater applied pressure Sebastian forces John to move into the room.

Sebastian closes the door behind him and stands there with his back against it, the gun on John. With huge, fearful eyes, John walks to the bedside, bends over Sherlock and hugs onto his shoulders. He does not think about Sebastian and Jim staring, but does it to make Sherlock feel a tiny bit better, if possible.

Neither of them wanted or asked for this. Their relationship was just fine on its platonic ground. Both are suited to the status quo, and neither John nor Sherlock is a boat rocker. However, there would be no turning back after this. Undoubtedly though, it is far better to have John forced to do this for Sherlock than for him to watch Jim do it. At least John will take care, because John has always loved him – as a friend. John is not heartlessly cruel like Moriarty.

John is still in shock when he feels something hit him just above his buttocks. Jim chuckles from behind, making it obvious who threw the small object. The tube of lube just behind John's feet makes him grimace, yet inside he feels some relief that Jim will not be that cruel.  
  
“Will you take me instead?” His voice has gone scratchy even before the words are said. The idea is revolting but John is willing to lay himself down for Sherlock's sake.  
  
Jim hums for a moment, “Hmm, no. Instead implies I don't get both, isn't that right, Sherlock?”  
  
John swallows hard while bending down to pick the lube up. Then his heart drops out of his chest – it has barely anything left. Moriarty is such a bastard.. He looks to Jim who sneers back with a smug yet playfully teasing stare. Even naked the man can be menacing with the right expression.

“Whatever you must do, John.” Sherlock mutters with a dullness to his voice that rips John's heartstrings right out of him. Not the detective's bored tone, this is so much more.. He nearly sounds broken.  
  
A surge of energy hits John – after he felt like wilting, powerless – and he shakes his head, “Sherlock..” Between his shattered best friend and the knowledge of what they were about to do to avoid a gun barrel, something just broke in him and instead of falling apart John rose to the occasion.

He cups Sherlock's cheek and moves to brush the incriminating evidence of Moriarty's orgasm away when Jim barks at him to leave it. The sudden harsh exclamation stops John mid-reach.

John sighs deeply, the sound rumbling in his throat. Without pause he still rose to the occasion. He rose with a lie, but only a white lie; “I've always wanted to do this – but never like this.” John whispers. Leaning forward over the bed, he bends down and kisses Sherlock's lips gently. It is more than a bit mechanical, and Sherlock is not reciprocating, but it is the best John can offer now.

“So have I..” Jim whispers menacingly from right behind him.


	5. To Deduce A Compliment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from Anonymus (aw guys, leave some name) for Johnlock fluff for Sherlock's self esteem.
> 
> Rating: Mature  
> Warnings: Fluff, not smut - Still they're naked, so put on some shades.

They had finished their love making.. John is lying on top of Sherlock, the condom already taken off, tied, and thrown in the bin. He’s still kissing Sherlock’s neck while the detective kneads his scalp. They often, as Sherlock puts it, ‘engage in a post-coital hold’ which John usually rolls his eyes at and calls ‘cuddle.’

“That was great.” John says softly, leaning against his lover’s sleek bare chest. He found Sherlock’s natural smoothness as erotic as Sherlock found John’s hair speckled upper chest.

“No better than usual John.” Sherlock comments in that usually attractive voice, but spewing such information now makes John want to bop the detective on the nose. Why can’t he take a compliment? Thinks John.

Sherlock is always doing this, and for John the behavior is wearing thin. The man might be an arrogant sod at a crime scene, but in the bedroom Sherlock is still cowed by his memories of virginal clumsiness. Sex is not his area of expertise, but John’s quite proud of him. For a man that’s never been with another man until the pale skinned sociopath, John thinks that would be good enough..

Not good enough for Sherlock, who feels like he should know every detail and gets lost in the mechanics of the act all too often. John can lure him back in with his tongue, but that is besides the point. He knows he should not have to every time – and also, John fears that overuse will dull his secret weapon.

“No. That was all you, Sherlock..” Instead, John Watson summons all his patience and moves in a slow sensual slide against Sherlock’s body. Down a little, then back up. John makes sure to drag his tongue too, “It was better for me.” Alright, truth be told, he knew he might be overdoing it a touch and it did not feel like his usual, but it was not uncomfortable. Sherlock’s soft skin made sure of that. Still, it was all for a good cause.

“John..” Sherlock says quietly, a softer yet nonetheless deductive voice. “Are you trying to arouse me?”

John just starts to grin at having finally fooled the world’s sole consulting detective. Although it is not like Sherlock had a bad idea, and if that will help his self esteem.. Then John is all for it.


	6. Little London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for: Myself =D
> 
> Rating: Mature  
> Warning: Nudity, OOC-Sebastian
> 
> If you’ve never seen LITTLE BRITAIN, skip this because you’ll have no idea what I’m going for!! Also I realize Moran is out of character, this is pure unadulterated humor.

There is only one time that Sebastian Moran has gotten James Moriarty to laugh a sincere bout of laughter. For them one is all they need...  
  
It started when Jim Moriarty sat relaxing in one of the nooks on their S-shaped couch, frowning at the television. He should have sat on the sofa for a good viewing angle, but Jim had not intended to get caught up watching trash. Still, it had happened.  
  
A week later, Sebastian catches it again – Jim nonchalantly in front of the television, watching the same peculiar program. He recognizes the voice of one of his preferable Doctors but aside from that he cannot place the sketch show. Still, Sebastian enjoys Jim's amused little exhalations that are not quite giggles. He unwinds during the show, visibly relaxing, but the result is short lived. There is a broody look to his face that returns once the program's credits begin to roll. The expression had not been there a few minutes ago, and it unsettles Sebastian; his sniper, flatmate and sometimes lover.  
  
For a few minutes Sebastian continues to polish his gun, cleaning the barrel with more loving care than he shows to any human, Jim included. He contemplates some parts of the show, and Jim's various reactions. As he polishes the brass detailing of his most ornate weapon Jim grabs his laptop and begins to tap away.  
  
“I don't like Sherlock.” Sebastian suddenly announces in his own voice. He realizes he needs to try for a higher register afterward and attempts that in his next sentence, “I've seen the way he looks at you.”  
  
Jim lifts his eyes off the LCD screen and stares with furrowed brows at Sebastian, not getting it. The voice was what really got his attention though.  
  
“He was looking at you like he loves you.” Sebastian Moran added the characteristic scoff of Sebastian Love, even though he could not imitate the hair flip with his short, well shorn hair. “It's sad, he's obviously got some mad crush on you, boss!”

Sebastian tries a mad giggle but it comes out scratchier than he wanted with his naturally gruff voice. He still nudges his gun out of his arms while saying, “He gets all kinds of nervous when he's around you.” The weapon falls to the floor with a clunk.

Jim is grinning, a beautiful beaming vision that is almost worth the sordid embarrassment of words that Sebastian has just taken on. Almost but not quite. Jim's look is appreciative before he fixes his gaze back to the laptop.

Sebastian is not deterred by the ceasing of attention, if anything it motivates him. The man rises to his feet and slides behind Jim, slowly undressing; The taller man was already in for a penny, might as well go in for a few guineas.  
  
A moment later a very naked Sebastian Moran squirms out from behind Jim.  
  
“Look, Jim, I'm a woman!” Although in that serious, low voice, it did not quite sound like Sebastian Love. The visual was perfect though, with Seb's cock tucked between his legs. The sinewy man spread his arms out before doing the bunny hop forward. Before he could blink, Jim is laughing. Soft gentle peels of laughter that sounded like muffled tinkling chimes to Sebastian.

Yes, it may have been the only time he got such a genuine reaction out of Jim (outside the bedroom), and even the only real laughter they shared, but Sebastian will always think it was worth a thousand little moments that never were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, the stuff I write at 3am. I feel like I should put an apology here..


	7. Pocket John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pocket!Lock or Pocket!John prompt: R  
> Rating: Teen  
> Warnings: Kidnap
> 
> Johniarty, Pocket!John, with adorableness.

  Of the seven billion people living in the world, about a tenth are pocket people. Out of that seven billion there has never been a single individual – large or small – to show Sherlock Holmes that the world is not made of dirty, foolish, rat-in-maze types exclusively; To show him there are people like him.

 Then he met John.

 Pocket John had gotten the nickname while being in the line of fire overseas. He could slip among battles (if given enough running time) and get in to heal the injured. The wounds were huge gaping chasms to him, but John would kick off his tiny boots and run over the supple flesh. He grew used to nightmares about blood stains and screams for a great length of time, until weeks after discharge.  
  
 When he met Sherlock.

 The average sized detective was in dire need of someone and for reasons unknown the two immediately clicked. John became Sherlock's flatmate – not pet, though the way the doctor followed him to work made other people think otherwise. They snickered. John ignored them, and Sherlock had always been ignoring them already. The two men remained in a blissful bubble, attached at the proverbial hip.  
  
 Until they both met Moriarty.

 Initially, Jim's interest was in Sherlock's mind, not his little pet as Jim called him. That changed quickly as Jim saw more and more of John Watson through the consulting detective.  
  
 John has always considered this new villain a threat to Sherlock. It is not until John is walking home in the pocket-person lane that he realizes how dangerous his association with Sherlock is – some blond haired man scoops him up not even a dozen yards from 221b – and now the threat comes to him.

* * *

 

 John's screams are small, and his resistance, though spirited, is quashed by some rough thick fingers winding around him until his eyes feel full to bursting. John stops squirming long enough to be thrown into a small cage. His rear end lands gracelessly, and the flop throws him out of commission for a moment as he fights to catch his breath.

 By the time he can get to his feet, the car they've entered is lurching forward and John is thrown back to the ground. He stays there, waiting with a glare.

* * *

 

 Sebastian Moran presents his boss with the small cage, having thrown a thin piece of Egyptian cotton over it first. The slighter man's delight in the dramatic is well known, and Sebastian is not the right hand man for nothing. He pays attention to small details and keeps Jim's interest, which is no easy task to put it lightly.  
  
 The blond plucks up the fabric and withdraws it in a flourish that exposes the small captive to them. He bows and wordlessly leaves Moriarty to enjoy what he expected to be gloating mingled with torture.  
  
 James Moriarty looks down at his pray with a smirk. His elegant fingers curl around the handle atop the cage, while John swore up and down the tiny cell now that there is someone to swear to. John's proportionally thicker finger, minuscule to Jim's eyes, wrap around the bars while he presses his face to them to help project his shouts.  
  
 Jim set the cage down in a ten gallon aquarium tank. Within the tank is a few unusual items better found in a doll house: a Barbie-sized bed, similar fake plastic kitchen with counter, table and two chairs, a couch, thimble of water and a cracker, and a comical pirate treasure chest meant for fish. There are plenty of specially made items for pocket people on the market, but Jim finds this much more amusing.

 Amusement seems to be his goal, as John notices a large crane hovering over one end of the tank. He swallows the sudden lump in his throat.  
  
 Thankfully, someone has set down a thin rectangle of carpet so John did not slide on the floor. He ran out of the cage and into the aquarium, running to the length ways side facing Jim. John's moist breath on the glass, clouding the looming figure before him.

 “You can't leave me in here! I'm not a fish!” John hollered, smacking his fist against the glass hopelessly.  
  
 And that's exactly what Jim did.

* * *

  
  
 Sebastian is surprised to see Jim so quickly, but he used the time as best as possible for a little abusive physical affection. Neither said much, but given their harrowingly erotic behavior it was normal. With his stress relieved, and John left alone long enough to get himself wound up, Jim reentered the room.

 It amused him to see that cute little Pocket John is jumping on top of a pile of items – his bed pushed into a corner, the table on the bed, a chair atop that, still not enough to reach the edge but damn if John was not trying his hardest.  
  
 “So adorable.” Murmurs Jim teasingly as he leered over the coverless aquarium.

 John stopped moving at that voice and turned around, glaring at his captor. He adjusts his monochrome jumper in a huff. John is ready to start in again but Jim beats him to the punch.

 “He won't be able to find you.” Trills the Irishman with sadistic delight.

 “Sherlock will always solve the case.” John's tiny voice remained determined and resolute. Sherlock Holmes has always been unstoppable in John's eyes, but now the detective has an even better reason to be motivated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I got this Pocket!John prompt and my first thought was, um, what's a Pocket John? So here's where my head canon went.. Bear in mind, I have never read a Pocket!John fic before, just looked at some pictures, so if I'm missing some base element from it, my bad! I liked a whole Pocket AU idea though so I threw that together.
> 
> Also, this is the Teen Version- decided to stop there, but the story does not end there. Naughty sequel to Pocket John will be the next chapter!
> 
> PS: So not a bother! You introduced me to Pirate!Lock and Pocket!Lock, and I love these AUs. Plus I have 0 prompts right now, not kidding. XP


	8. Clawing & Cleaning Pocket John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of the Pocket!Lock or Pocket!John prompt by R  
> Rating: EXPLICIT  
> Warnings: NSFW, dubious consent, sexual content, kidnap

“Maybe there won't be anything left to find.” Jim murmurs softly, but his voice is still loud to John. That's why John likes Sherlock's voice – gentle and low. Jim is a little louder, though more pleasant to the ear. It has a chirpy quality against Sherlock's purring fluidity, John notes with his small ears. Though John is too busy shivering at the thought to pay much attention to Jim's voice, that comment is a small chink in his armor.  
  
Still, John fires back with a noble air that belies both his size and fear, “You're insane!”  
  
Slowly Jim's lips stretch apart in a toothy smirk that has a false air of calm. John can sense the torrent underneath Jim's large smile.  
  
Moriarty moves to the other end of the aquarium where the modified claw game crane controls await him. The piece of machinery is a finely altered little contraption – smaller claw, no surrounding box, and yet it all operates just like the commercial arcade toy. After twenty minutes or so of play Jim finds it to be worth every penny but a short lived endeavor.

There are highlights, of course. Jim is not amused at first when John bites him the first time the larger man removes his “New little toy,” and calls him that to his minuscule face. Though it does become funny a moment later, when Jim is chasing John around the aquarium with the small swinging claw. John tries to hide and only ends up losing the privilege of his furniture piece by piece. Jim is indeed bemused hearing squeals of horror and watching John flail, but not for long.

John's body aches from being lurched around and hauled by various limbs. Certain parts of his body are bruising from where the tip of one of the claw's three prongs had slammed unyielding against him. So when Jim finally reached out and picked John up there was no energy left for him to fight. Still, he could not help but bite down on Jim's hand once close enough to the table top.  
  
Moriarty's hand shook at the stronger than a pinprick pain. The sudden shift of his palm sent John toppling. He hissed low and stumbled to his knees, rising as soon as he could and rushing to a tea tray a few feet away. Sebastian Moran had brought it in earlier when Jim was still playing.

John hides behind the teapot, thankful for Jim's taste in high quality items as the outside is cool to the touch. He needs to rest and sinks down on the silver tray, falling to his side a moment later. Within minutes John is asleep.

Jim watches John stumble away and lets the smaller man go. With the slightest leaning he can see a tuft of brown poking from out behind the teapot, so he let it sit a few minutes. Jim is not in a rush for his tea anyway.

After John has been still for five minutes Jim moves the teapot and smirks at the battered little figure curled up on his side. The jumper the pocket person wears has been stretched to comical levels by the claw, making John look even smaller amongst the baggy cotton. Jim curls his left hand around John's spine, lowering his index finger onto the tiny brown locks and petting gently.

* * *

 

  
An hour later, though John cannot fathom the passage of time, the pocket sized man awakens with his wearied limbs still aching in passing dull throbs. There is a great deal of warmth around him, though, and at first he leans back into it. That is until he realizes the squishy surroundings come from Moriarty's hand. The face looming over him, watching John closely while tussling his hair.

The tiny mortal rolls over, escaping and rising to his knees quickly. He cringes at the pain that causes but does not let it stop him. John meets Moriarty's slight pout with a defiant glare.

“Now, John, you needn't be that way..” Purrs out Jim, reaching for John's locks again. He has become rather fond of petting John in the last hour.

At the reach of Jim's large hand, hovering over him like some UFO, the little military man begins to run. He tramples over the tabletop in spite of the utter desperateness his size makes of the attempt. Then John notices a dish in front of Jim, laden with a crumpet covered in strawberry jam, and he makes a beeline for it.  
  
Even John knew in that desperate rush that should he escape Jim's hand, the table is in the middle of the room. Moran and Moriarty have set it up to be inescapable; too high up with nothing around it. So the least he could do is fight back – even if it just means ruining Jim's tea time. He rushes at the crumpet and his feet immediately sink into the sticky crannies. John begins to kick, sending jam and crumbs flying.

In a sudden emotional torrent brought on by his hopeless situation John sinks down into the crumpet and begins to destroy it by the fistful. Jim's brows have risen as the attempt lasts a good minute before John's hands lower and still on the sticky surface and his eyes fill with tears.  
  
“You tempt me to keep you.” Jim murmured, deftly reaching down with one graceful digit extended. The large pad of his index finger pet John's head with surprisingly gentility. The emotionally exhausted man sits still in the midst of Jim's snack, not fighting it though he does turn his head away.  
  
Jim pinches the back of John's jumper and lifts him up. The man squirms as he rises, only stopping after his bottom hits Jim's palm and the pressure of his shirt ceases. John sets both palms flat beside him, looking at the huge expanse of Jim's face unflinchingly.

“You're very messy..” Jim whispers for the benefit of John's diminutive ears. “I could let you sit in your own filth.” The playful Irishman is teasing him and John's face burns without response.

“I'd rather have my little John clean.” He walks over and plucks up a tissue, heading back to the table before John could get much of a glimpse around the room let alone make a break for it.

Jim begins by tugging off John's trousers, snapping the teensy buttons and ripping the crotch from his strength. He pinches the bottom and yanks them off John who squirms at not wanting Jim to touch him, though neither does he want to remain covered in jam.

Faced with the consequences, John feels rather foolish about his little act of defiance. Though pocket sized he has always ruled his own destiny, even within the army, yet now his puny size makes a mockery of his freedom.

After getting John's jumper off all that's left is sticky skin and boxers. Jim begins to rub off the jam through the napkin, humming under his breath. His fingers feel soft and move carefully, never harming John. It should revolt him, but after the stress of the crane game he is more than willing to defer to this instead.

Perhaps John began to look a little too complacent with the cleaning, he is not sure why, but for whatever reason Jim pulls him to his lips and for a moment John feels terrified of a cannibalism scenario. Then he feels Jim's moist warmth hitting him, and John is nearly knocked onto his back by the man's tongue.  
  
John is not a virgin. He has had sex with pocket women, and one or two curious larger ones. Still, he has never been attracted to a man before so his body's sudden response to Jim's lolling appendage surprises him. Perhaps jumping onto the man's toast was not such a good idea after all.. It certainly seemed to be failing in its intention.

John shivered at the dog-like full body lick. His legs try to close, but the tip of Jim's tongue pushes down his chest and quickly parts them by force. John finds his body stirring in response while his boxers stick to his skin and mentally he screams at himself. Physically he stiffens when Jim licks him again and starts sucking on John's crotch (and part of his stomach for the sheer size of his mouth).  
  
The petite moan reaches Jim's ears but he already knows John is enjoying it - he can feel the tiny hardness prodding his tongue. Jim works against the spit-soaked fabric while his lips suckle, occasionally moving the plush curves over John's shaft.

John reaches up and grabs onto Jim's nose, trying not to pant in pleasure. He wanted to will his body into a fight but could only clutch at Jim and spread his legs to either side of the large man's mouth.

When Jim lets go he is treated to the sight of a tiny John, soaked below the waist including his tented boxers. He smiles more than smirks and nods, “Boxers off.”  
  
John is torn between obeying for more, and trying to stop. Slowly, breath hitching, he peels off the boxers that now feel shellacked onto his skin. His erection juts up between his legs once free and he slowly leans back against Jim's smooth palm.

Jim has other ideas and switches John to his other hand, now leaving John face down. The man begins to squirm at the shift in position, lifting his hips up to roll himself over. Then he stops as Jim runs his tongue all the way down his back.  
  
John gasps at the obscene wave of pleasure that hits him. Jim's tongue can completely spread his cheeks apart, though it cannot delve inside him. It still applies pressure that sends John bucking slightly against his captor's hand. All thought of rebellion leaves his mind.

The pocket man sighs and hugs onto two of Jim's fingers, rocking his hips. Suddenly being kidnapped by James Moriarty has become the highlight of his week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant for this to get darker, but I think I loved the idea of a chibi John so much I could not hurt him the first time around..


	9. Smoke Billows & A Towel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teen!lock Johnbastian prompt where Sherlock introduces John to Seb, and the two turn to each other after both being abandoned by Jim.  
> Prompt from: Sherjohnlockian  
> Rating: Mature  
> Warnings: M/M briefly, drug use

“John? John.” Repeats a low voice thick with irritation at being ignored. Finally the tall onyx haired boy pushes on the brunette's shoulder to get his attention. “Jaaahn.”

Sherlock Holmes is John's best friend, and has been since the shy but amiable boy first moved to town. At first John made plenty of friends, mingling easily among different cliques, but his attention was quickly commandeered by one fascinating enigma wrapped in a handsome pale package. Sherlock had no friends before John, and yet Sherlock immediately took to John like he was an old pal.

“Sorry, Sherlock,” John looks up from the dry text he had been absorbed in. “What is it?”

John, finding Sherlock both equally fitting and awing with his intellect, let his other friendships grow dusty. The fact that John is a year ahead of him, and that someday Sherlock will not have him, does not seem to matter.  
  
“I'm so bored..” Sherlock has already been yelled at by the librarian once - for taking out the blank page at the start of books, in a dozen or so novels, after complaining what a waste of a page-turning effort they are. The librarian did not hold the same views, of course. If not for the donation by Sherlock's prestigious family he would have been thrown out.  
  
The pair fell into such a fluid compatibility that no room was left for any others. Of course, such a friendship starts rumors, but Sherlock does not care, and John denies it while dating around but never sticking to one particular girl.

“Fine.” John acquiesces with only a slight sigh, packing everything into his book bag. The two are as bad as conjoined twins, and Sherlock insists on following John even if only to complain after the fact. “Want to go to my house?” John offers.

“We need to stop first.” Sherlock says while rising up. He does not ask even though it's John's car, their conversations more like repartee.

The two head out of the library side by side, with the shorter boy looking up to his friend with a raised brow. “Where?” Sherlock's stops are always interesting, sometimes dangerous, but John has never said no to any of them. Sometimes he wonders if part of the allure of Sherlock's friendship is the risks they take together.

“My lab partner skipped his classes today. He has the notes of our data.” Sherlock replied, revealing his source of irritation. John knows the man's contrary whims – some classes he ignores completely, and in others he is such a perfectionist. Sherlock never works with others, he either ignores it or does the entire work himself, meticulously. 

“Oh.” John cannot help but feel a touch disappointed, having expected something with a sense of grandeur. After all, what could come from stopping for some notes?

* * *

 

  
The blond that greets them at the door is as tall as Sherlock, but has a better filled out sinewy body. The tips of his locks are dyed a shockingly bright orange. He gives the pale youth a nod in silent greeting, eyes falling to John curiously. “He's cool?”

“Of course.” Sherlock narrows his eyes, as if his own character has been infringed on with that remark. He hikes up the collar on his jacket while stepping inside.

The scent hitting both their nostrils was immediately recognized by Sherlock, though John mistook it for a strong incense. Which John did find odd, as the boy in front of him looked more likely to be an athlete than a hippie.

“I really don't feel like doing this right now.” Says the fair haired boy, crossing his arms over his elegantly muscular chest. Harsh stare daring Sherlock to defy his words under a layer of external coolness.

Then Sherlock's lips set thinly, his voice crisp with dislike,“I only require your notes.”

“Yeah, c'mon..” Mutters the blond, walking through an archway into the next room. The source of the scent is now obvious to John as another boy with dark hair sat on the blond's couch, a thin stick with wrinkled light blue paper pressed between his lips while a lighter sparked the other end.

“Coulda waited, Jim..” The irritation is for the hit he is missing, not the two walking in with him and observing the cannabis Jim is lighting up.

John now realizes the boy known as Jim is in his own class though he does not know him at all. He could not help the way his browns roamed over the shorter youth's face, framed by wisps of smoke. A sparse, almost invisible goatee that fails to make him look older – if anything he just looks like a boy trying to appear like a man. A touch of baby fat still giving a slight curvature to his face, though that telltale linear pattern is evident underneath, barely breaking through the translucent surface of his tanned skin.

Jim leans back, smirking and lifting one arm to rest against the back of the couch while he took another drag.“If I did that I'd spend half my life waiting, Seb.”  
  
Now at least John has a name to put to the blond, but he finds his eyes resting on Jim. At least, until Seb leaves to fetch the notes. Then, John realizes that they will soon depart. He tries to think of a reason to stay, and though what he comes up with unnerves him, he proceeds to nudge Sherlock in the ribs.

“Do you want to stay?” John asks slowly, trying not to sound as hesitant as he comes across.

Sherlock's brow furrows and he stares analytically at John, “Why do you want to stay?”

Now backed into a corner John takes the only option, lifting his open palm with a wave towards Jim, “Let's try it.” He forces a chummy smile, “We're The Young Ones, right?”  
  
“It's cotton candy.” Jim's face lights up in an overdone grin and he leans over with his arm outstretched to offer it to them.  
  
Though Sherlock is still puzzling over John, knowing that his friend is more on the straight and narrow. In fact, Sherlock has gotten lectures from John in the past, so this sudden transition of views does not escape his hawk eyes. The source is difficult to pin down though.

At first.  
  
As the two sit and partake it becomes clear; John is angling his body to the left, which is the side Jim is on, and he speaks more animatedly as Sherlock has noted happens whenever John talks to a cheerleader, also fumbling on his sentences occasionally which is normal for John speaking to any girl – but now it's happening with Jim.

Sherlock, for once, says nothing about his inference. Instead, he takes two long hits when the joint is passed to him. “This is too soft,” Sherlock complains with a critical gaze at the tightly wrapped plant matter. But instead of leaving the dark haired boy offers to roll the next one.

* * *

 

  
“Mhmmm, oh, oh fu-” John's strained whisper stills with a gasp and his fingers tighten in the dark greased up strands. He leans forward, letting the other man's palms resting on his thighs ground him. The devil is still arching his back, mouth slowly moving.

“Jim.” John's voice trembles like a leaf on the wind. He catches his softly panting breath before tussling the other youth's hair, smiling tiredly. “Best anniversary present.”

“It's our anniversary?” Inquires the slightly younger man curiously from his kneeling position on the floor, causing a bubble of weak but sincere laughter from John.

* * *

 

  
John rings the doorbell of a fairly impressive brick and mortar home that he has visited many times in the past month. The young man smiling while he waits before the red door, looking down to a bouquet of white tiger lilies.  
  
Instead of Jim greeting John, at the door to his own home (alright, his parents' home but when they were out Jim took it over), someone else opened the door. A familiar face, chiseled features and cropped blond hair making John frown.

“What are you doing here, Sebastian?” John begins, before adding with a thickening lump in his throat, “... in a towel?”

* * *

 

“Jim's... always been on bottom.” John's voice breaks the silence of the room that has fallen. After twenty minutes inside he feels a need to explain his half in it, even if he is not the one caught.

Sebastian stares back before shrugging with feigned disinterest, “Looks like he had us both..” Murmurs the gravely smoker's voice, “Fucking trollop.”

For some reason that make John smile, sadly, but still. Jim is indeed a bit of a trollop. He looks over to Sebastian, still in a towel. Indeed an athlete, all cut muscles with deep dips and tracks. Much more fit than Jim.

Meanwhile Sebastian is looking at John, who is all smooth curve in a cute way. That face still chubby, and staying that way in an eternal state of adorability. Always in a jumper, with the shy eyes of a foundling, yet trusting. Always trusting and now so broken by Jim's betrayal.

Suddenly the two are on each other in a flash of tongue, grips of cotton and terrycloth, and the heat of inflaming their own passions again. Both need retribution, and in a way revenge on Jim; This is perfect...

* * *

 

 

“Oi – Sebastian?” Calls a familiar yet vaguely new voice.

The natural blond – no more hair dye now in adulthood - stops walking down the street and pivots. His eyes widen at the man coming toward him with a jovial grin – face older, worn yet still curvaceous cheeks and brown mare's eyes. The voice is deeper then the memory. “John!” He replies, surprised yet still sounding rather more reserved than he had as a youth.  
  
The two begin to converse with that fluidity of two likewise spirits meeting up, the chronology irrelevant to the mastery of their connection. John mentions sharing a flat with Sherlock, having reunited years later. Sebastian sighs and admits to living and working with Jim – though he never mentions Jim's last name. No, it does not come to mind as he instead recalls the way John looked stretched across his bed years ago on one angst filled yet passionate afternoon.

Maybe if he had said Jim Moriarty, John would have realized that his first and only high school boyfriend was also a mass murdering psychopath. That would have to come later.


	10. Taken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from the lovely R - Post RBF, John's started a family with someone & Jim cannot stand that of course, so he kidnaps both John and his child to make them become a family.
> 
> Rating: Mature  
> Warning: Kidnap! Implied smut. 
> 
> I did get into smut-territory but I ended it before that.. I thought it was much more poetic that way.. Tried to put some poetry into this, felt it came out a bit angstier than intended. Still some fluff, but angst-fluff. Hope it still suits!

So cold.. Remarkably cold against his cheek, perhaps there was something wrong with the thermostat? Or maybe his pillow, it is strangely hard.. and the bed is stiff too... Then John realizes he is not waking up on his bed, or even a bed, because what is beneath him is familiar – concrete. He's waking up on a hard cool concrete floor in some windowless room.

The groggy mentality sinking him starts to dissipate with his body's waking. John even thinks so as he sits up, realizing what is really going on. He can barely recall a jab, seeing a face, and darkness.. The jab, he now realizes, must have been a tranquilizer or some other type of sedative in order to get him here. Where here is though, John does not know.

No windows, not even a bed. It truly does appear like a cell, except the door is wooden. John tries it only to find it locked, and with enough effort he can rip through it – even if it tears the scar tissue in his shoulder in the process. John still lets his body rest from the drug's effects, not rushing into any decisions, least of all those shows of brute force.  
  
The face comes back to him in a rush, sending his blood to chill. John was captured by Moriarty, the man he had left – after being with him for months while the world thought he was dead.

The gloriously stylized face, framed by those elegant brows and hair dotted chin, with a high forehead that John had placed many kisses on years ago. John's memories recall both a maniacal grin, and wide spread lips in orgasmic ecstasy on that slender boyish face.

The door opens and John, feeling a surge of hope, is on his feet with fingers already curling into fists. Attacking comes to mind, to fight his way out the door, but the one who enters shocks him. Barely changed despite the years gone by, that same man walks in who he had thought he hallucinated kidnapping him.

“Jim?” John murmurs in awe of the professionally dressed figure as full of pomp and style as ever. The detail of his black pinstripes, the white pocket handkerchief, a silken tie with embossed tiny revolvers, make this too clever to be a hallucination. Moriarty is truly before him once more.  
  
“John Watson, are you pleased to see me?” Whispers Jim slowly, looking upon the other man with a careful wide-eyed stare that John knows means he is holding back. It's a familiar face, but it feels more like memory than reality.  
  
“Why am I here?” John's arms spread with a pointed look of frustration.  
  
Jim walks closer, the two staring each other down with inches between them. Both seem in awe of the sudden reunion. Jim reaches out to touch John's cheek, and the doctor still at his practice turns his head away. Jim turns away, and rubs his suddenly stiff jaw, “I've missed you.”

Jim Moriarty, the one that had done what even Sherlock could not; He had won John, but still let him get away. Now he sounds positively soft voiced, not quite apologetic but this is as close as John supposes is possible for him. The mere fact Moriarty would admit such makes it a breakthrough, but John has already moved on.

Years ago, he had moved on with a new life, and it took seed. A wonderful woman named Mary, whose fair visage still made him smile even years into their marriage. While he still solved the occasional case with Sherlock his life had drastically quieted. All for the better, until this sudden reminder at least.

The feelings stirs up by the sight of Jim does not sit well in the pit of John's stomach. Especially not when that dark eyed rogue is staring at him with doe eyes, zapping that frustration away. “I'm sorry, Jim, I've moved on.” John genuinely is sorry that it took them so long for Jim to realize his mistake, but his voice is firm. “I have a family.”  
  
“I know.” Murmurs the Irishman, stretching the 'o' with pain in him. He crinkles up his lips into a sneer, twisting his head as if he has smelt something disgusting. “Your wife..”

“If you hurt her..” John lifts his hand with a sudden heightening of force, threatening. “I will..”

“Oh John, let's not be coy.” Jim murmurs with a faint glimmer of that deadly grin on his face. The same grin Moriarty always used to use while terrorizing Sherlock. “You'd never forgive me – we both know that.”

John lets out a breath, but his tentative lull lasts for only a moment.

“That doesn't mean we can't start again. Better this time.” Jim's slowly beginning to smile with unsettling wildness in his eyes. The man steps close to John again, and his eyes search his ex-lover's with ferocity, his whisper nearly echoing in John's ears, “A family together.”  
  
Something about the way Jim says together makes John's breath catch, giving him a brief lightheaded sensation that makes no medical sense to him - outside of emotion. “What do you mean, Jim?” John says slowly, taking pains to not snipe at the other man.

“Follow me.” He winks and leads John out the door, the hallway making it clear the house they are in has aged without much upkeep. The grit on the walls cannot hide the years of wear on the not-so-recent paint job. Jim does not walk far before unlocking a door, gesturing that John enters. Something about the man's fluid movement lets John know it is alright, and not part of some grander scheme.

The doctor enters what looks like another room within the dreary old house, but this one has nicer accommodations like carpeting, furniture, toys and a window. What really amazes, and slightly terrifies, John is the sight of a little girl with blond curls, her overalls a tad askew with a sparkling sequin-covered top underneath it.  
  
“Emma!” John says softly, wearing a grin remarkably similar to the one on the little girl's face as she scampered into his arms. Both slender arms around John's thick neck as she snuggled in. Suddenly all John's anxiety abated.  
  
“Daddy, why are we here?”

John takes a moment to just look at his daughter, safe and sound. Then he takes another one to ponder Jim, and another..

“Daddy?” She repeats persistently. Sherlock taught her to be persistent and to never take no for an answer by three. John has still not forgive him for that.

“Have you met.. Jim?” He questions slowly, deciding to gather some information. These years spent caught up in one messy, dangerous business after the next, side by side with law enforcement, have taught him something; Gathering information is important.  
  
“Yes. He picked me up after nap time.” Replies the little blond with a curious look in her eyes. “Daddy, mommy was upset.” Her voice is a little more quiet, there is hesitation.  
  
“I'll bet.” John murmurs under his breath.  
  
Finally Emma finished her thought while in the safety of her father's arms. “He said he's going to be my daddy too.. Why would he say that?”  
  
John kisses her temple and holds tightly, taking a moment to treasure her in the safe haven provided by his thick grasp. The doctor nuzzles his daughter and whispers in her ear, “Don't worry about that, he's silly and he likes to play games.”  
  
The doctor looks over his shoulder and sees Jim in the doorway, arms crossed and pouting. He knows that look of discontent well, it visited their relationship many times years ago. Funny how one does not forget the little things, like a partner's looks.  
  
John unwinds himself from the little girl, takes Emma's hand and stands. He walks with her, not at all cowed by the villain in the doorway. Jim's dark eyes are a touch phosphorescent in the dim poorly lit old house's hall. “I think we should go.” John announces crisply, hoping to forge ahead through whatever tepid waters promised by Jim's earlier doleful gaze.

“No, I don't think so.. besides, Mrs. Hudson has cookies downstairs.” Jim replies, looking to Emma with a forced smile. He has never liked children, but this one is John's – John and That Woman. For Jim, Mary had become That Woman, and it was usually said with a snarl while he was drunk.

John makes a point not to tighten the hand holding onto his daughter's as they walk down the stairs. As Jim had promised, Mrs. Hudson, a little grayer and nervous, is waiting with a thankful smile at seeing them both safe. She hugs onto Emma tightly.

First he ascertains that she is not harmed, and they exchange looks of hurried concern over Emma's hug before putting on false visages before the girl could see them. Indeed, there were cookies, and soon he promised to go try and figure out a way to escape. Mrs. Hudson, quite agreeable, nodded repeatedly and set her hand on Emma's shoulder in a silent signal of protection that John both reads and trusts.  
  
Jim is waiting for John outside in the hall, and he turns before a word can be exchanged between them. With nothing but that silent summons John knows better than to argue. He follows with begrudging steps that only become heavier as they walk into a bedroom. Immediately a brow arches, lips part as he makes a disbelieving face, “Really, Jim?”  
  
“I thought we could discuss our affairs, privately.” Replies his ex-enemy, ex-lover casually. He sits primly on the edge of the bed with the slightest inkling of a smirk threatening to plow across his lips at any moment.  
  
“Our affairs finished years ago.” John tries to take the imploring tone out of his voice. “I'm married now,” He thumbs at his scrunched brow, the words heavy even with all their truth, “And that means something to me.”  
  
“She's such a slut..” Jim complains with a faint whining tone that boarders on snippy.  
  
“That's my _wife_ you're talking about!” John barks, anger suddenly striking him.  
  
Making a disgruntled noise in response, Jim looks away. His voice a touch softer without his eyes bearing down on John. “We were so much better, and I never quite meant..”

“It doesn't matter.” The now thick voice cuts him off, because apologies of yesteryears damages would not erase time. That is what matters.

“I won't let you go!” Jim snarls out, sounding like an injured animal lashing out without provocation.  
  
There is silence for a moment as John realizes just how hurt Jim is – how much the years must have festered this wound to one who is already so thoroughly internally wired, so full of walls. “You can't force me to love you.” John murmurs as gently as he can. Final words nearly whispered, “Even if I used to.”

Jim stands abruptly, catapulted by that shell of an admission. He walks to John and cups the noble doctor's jaw with a heated urgency to both have, and not lose, the man he once loved too. “Let me have you for tonight, and That Woman can have you after that.”  
  
John's gentle nod is accompanied by his leaning in, the agreement much more visceral in a liplock between them. The years melt away, for they remember how the other once liked it; John tilting his head and parting his lips, and Jim paying special attention to John's lower lip. Starting slow for a build up that would lead them back to the bed.

The criminal's artistic digits settled on John's broad sinewy shoulders that are still attractive, something that time has not worn down. It has filled out his stomach though – along with his wife's cooking. Jim does not mind the extra plushness, for he always thought John's roundedness made him eternally adorable.

What is maddening to John is how little Jim has changed; The madman seems to live in a time capsule made of expensive suits. A line or two around his temples and a few more in that proud forehead – some only visible with certain expressions – are all the signs of age that John spots. He even finds, looking down over Jim's shoulder, that the man's rear end is still quite pert for his age.

“Well hello..” Jim purrs against his lips at the stirring that is happening against his leg. He chuckles and leans in to push his tongue past John's lips, seizing both the opportunity and his own emotional zeal.

John exhales a moan that passes over Jim's lips, spurring the heated Irishman to kiss him feverishly, swiping in his tongue. After so long very little has changed, and Jim knows that even the sex will not have changed. That pleases him instead of feeling monotonous – he has missed sleeping with John Watson, because sex with plain boring John Watson is never plain, and never boring..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting a NEW fic for prompts - [Click for new fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/859048/chapters/1645171).  
> Need more prompts, really want Sheriarty/Jimlock prompts the most =D  
> [Tumblr Link](http://jimlockian.tumblr.com/)


End file.
